


Untitled Birthday fic (or Why Lionel Richie Gets Paid the Big Bucks)

by micehell



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Angst, Drama, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-08
Updated: 2006-10-08
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:16:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/micehell/pseuds/micehell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur made a promise to God that he would never undervalue someone else's profession again if He would just help Arthur survive the terminal humiliation he was burning with now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled Birthday fic (or Why Lionel Richie Gets Paid the Big Bucks)

Curt was sitting at Arthur's desk, the tip of his tongue jutting out as he concentrated on the notes he'd taken, copying them over again in a neat, careful hand so that someone, besides Curt, had a chance in hell of being able to read them. He was hunched over, practically folded into the fake wood of the desktop, but Arthur could still see the spot of soy sauce from their lunch on the knee of his jeans. He could also see the spot of semen on the hem of Curt's shirt, leftover from the quickie hand job in the men's room Curt had talked him into before the takeout had arrived.

Though perhaps Curt hadn't so much talked him into it, as vaguely suggested it. Or really, if Arthur were being completely honest here, all Curt had done was to show up at his office, wanting to help him out with the story Arthur was working on, which had been fast approaching its deadline. Curt had offered to file or take notes, whatever was needed, which, of course, as anyone would, Arthur had construed as an offer to do him in the restroom. In Arthur's favor, Curt had certainly been fond of that construction, since the stain on his shirt was his own, and neither of them were as anxious about the deadline as they'd been before Curt had came.

Arthur cringed in his own mind at the unfortunate choice of words, but, still, it was true either way. In fact, Arthur was feeling fairly good as he sat on Jodi's desk - who'd, thankfully, already gone home for the evening - waiting for the verdict from his editor, and watching Curt.

Curt had actually been surprisingly helpful, even beyond the sex. Arthur knew he shouldn't be surprised, having figured out long before that the dim, cynical air Curt wore like a crown was just an artful mask over the sharp romantic underneath. It was the romantic that listened to everything Arthur said even when the cynic didn’t appear to have heard one word, and was the reason Curt always wound up _accidentally_ doing the errands that Arthur didn't have time for, or, coincidentally, showing up with offers of lunch and help when Arthur was too busy to even think.

Curt was frowning over his notes, probably having reached something in them that even he couldn't decipher, but the frown cleared and the writing continued. It was just busy work, something for him to do while they waited, something that Arthur could have done tomorrow when he was putting the story file to rest, as what was in the notes had already been used in the completed draft that his editor was blue marking even then.

Arthur hadn't even really needed Curt to take notes at the interviews, his recorder more than adequate enough, but he liked sharing his work with Curt, sharing such a large part of his life that no one besides other reporters had ever been interested in before. And Curt had turned out to be a blessing at the interviews, anyway.

His serious manner, almost shy, had often stood Arthur in good stead when he interviewed a subject. He was a good listener, quiet and non-judgmental, and people tended to talk to him like they did to bartenders and priests, telling him more of their secrets than they'd meant to. But either he had been off today, or his subjects just weren't willing, because he hadn't gotten far with either of them.

Which is where the blessing of Curt came in. He'd been quiet during both interviews, at first, anyway, trying to blend into the background, taking unobtrusive notes. But as Arthur had faltered, Curt had become more animated. Not in his usual manner when he was dealing with strangers, though; no slightly self-mocking amusement, no ironic detachment or world-weary cynicism.

Instead he'd flirted, subtly at first, but growing bolder as the interviews went along. And even though the first subject had been an 87 year old woman - who'd flirted back outrageously, Arthur having a hard time getting his questions in between the innuendo the two of them were slinging at each other - and the other had been a 30-something businessman - who'd seemed disapproving on the outside, but who'd looked at Curt with the star struck eyes of the fan he'd once been, and who'd given away far more than he'd probably been comfortable with once he'd woke up from Curt's spell - both of them had responded to Curt in a way they hadn't for Arthur. And wouldn't have even if he'd flirted up a storm.

Arthur couldn't guess how Curt had known it would work, wasn't even sure that Curt hadn't just figured they had nothing to lose in trying, but either way, he was damn happy to have the story finished.

And it had been fun, among other sensations, to watch Curt being playful, even if it wasn't with him.

Afterwards, Arthur could never quite be sure what had done it. Maybe it had been thinking about the flirting. Or perhaps it was the flash of pink every time Curt bit his tongue while he was concentrating, like he was doing now as he focused on his notes, as he'd done earlier when he'd focused on making Arthur come. Maybe it was the way Arthur had enjoyed his work more than he usually did, even with a major deadline hanging over him. How he liked sharing this part of himself with Curt, liked that Curt seemed to want it, too. It probably also had something to do with his editor giving him the nod, setting him loose for the day. Setting him free to go home and act on all the things that watching Curt flirt and bite his tongue and give hand jobs had made Arthur want to do.

And all of those things, which had been lurking in the back of Arthur's mind, held in abeyance by work and necessity, were set free, too. They hit Arthur so hard that he could barely breathe through the need, and he wanted to take Curt home, take him to their bed, take him in every way, the need making his fingers twitch with the desire to grab Curt and drag him away.

Arthur controlled himself, though, wanting to let Curt finish what he was doing, wanting to calm down enough that he could thank Curt properly for the work he'd put in, not just fuck him into the floor the second they walked into their apartment. But Curt seemed to be tied into Arthur's need, his head coming up, his nostrils flaring, as if he were scenting it on the air. He looked directly at Arthur, his eyes dilating even as Arthur watched.

Curt grinned at him, all teeth, before turning back to his notes, throwing them into one of the drawers in the desk. He turned back to Arthur then, said, "Let's go," and it was a cat's growl, low and dangerous, and his eyes were intent, intensely beautiful, when he grabbed Arthur's arm, following Arthur's thought, dragging him away.

All the way home Arthur couldn't help but take small pieces of Curt; a kiss here, a touch there. Walking out of the paper's doors, standing together on the train, holding hands as they almost ran the last couple of blocks home, it was like he was sixteen again, the need to come like the need to breathe, inescapable. But it wasn't enough, it could never be enough, and his lungs ached from wanting to breathe Curt in.

Their shoes were left by the apartment door, shirts flung off along the way to the bedroom, but the sight of Curt, wearing nothing but soft denim jeans, face already gone still with need, made Arthur pause, and one need was replaced with another.

He'd wanted to wait for this, wanted to give his gift to Curt in the right setting, time and place carefully chosen. But there were things he wanted to say, here and now, humming in his head, singing in his veins, the beat of them thick in his cock, desperate with both the want and the need, and he couldn't wait.

He pushed Curt back on the bed, pressing him against the headboard, stilling him with a kiss before moving away. He still had the cassette player hidden in his sock drawer, someplace the less than domestic Curt would never find it, and he ignored Curt's questioning, "Arthur?" as he pulled it out, pressing play with suddenly stage frightened fingers.

He did all right at first, only stumbling over the words a little as he'd substituted _please_ for _girl_ , singing out the emotions he felt so deeply, but had such a hard time saying.

_Please tell me only this,  
That I'll have your heart for always,  
And you want me by your side  
Whispering the words I'll always want you._

But that was when things started to go wrong. When he'd practiced this alone - imagining himself on a stage, performing for an adoring audience, Curt staring at him as Arthur had stared all those years ago - Arthur had been all smooth voice, smooth grace. But now he found Curt's intent eyes unnerving, and without the comforting delusion of his daydream, he knew his voice, regardless of how sexy Curt found it when he talked, wasn't really geared towards _singing_.

Unable to look at Curt anymore, afraid of what he'd see there, Arthur closed his eyes, trying to gloss over the imperfections in his voice by the sincerity of his emotions, pouring his heart into someone else's words. Pretty sure it wasn't helping, he tried to shimmy his hips a little, going for sexy since smooth was so obviously beyond him now. But his knees felt both stiff and liquid, refusing to move and yet threatening to drop him on his ass at the same time, and all his hopes of enticing with his body where his voice had failed were drowned in feeling stupid and awkward. Arthur could only wonder how Curt had done this so easily up on the stage, could only wonder what the hell he had thought he was doing.

It had seemed like such a good idea when he'd first had it, performing for Curt the way Curt sometimes did for him. Inviting himself into Curt's life the way he had made himself at home in Arthur's.

So he'd had a friend make a copy of _Truly_ for him, editing out the vocal track, and he'd practiced furtively, wanting everything to be perfect.

Arthur, perfectly embarrassed, knowing now that being a performer was harder than he'd ever given Curt credit for, made a promise to God that he would never undervalue someone else's profession again if He would just help Arthur survive the terminal humiliation he was burning with now.

He wound down the song --

_I need you, & with your love I'm free,  
And truly, you know you're alright with me._

But even as he did so, Arthur realized that while Lionel Richie could sing that song soulfully, making people swoon when he did so, when anyone else - or maybe it was just Arthur - tried to get those lyrics out, they just sounded like the maudlin - and appallingly bad - lyrics that they were.

The music died away, leaving only silence in its wake. Arthur held his breath for a moment, waiting for the hush to be broken by Curt's laughter, his admonishment for Arthur not to quit his day job, waiting for something to tell him that his self-wrought shame had come to an end, and then they could laugh about it, could forget it ever happened, except as maybe an anecdote they'd tell each other through the years.

But the laughter never came, and the moment wouldn't end, not before Arthur had to draw in a noisy breath, had to finally open his eyes to see what was in Curt's.

Curt, who had his head tilted, watching him curiously from the head of the bed, never having moved from where Arthur had placed him. Curt, who wasn't amused, who wasn't laughing, who was only watching Arthur as if he were the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen, and Arthur could only stare back, wondering what Curt was seeing.

Then Curt moved, breaking the spell the silence had woven them in. His movements were slow, deliberate, and the sway of his hips as he approached Arthur held all of the grace that Arthur's had lacked. Without meaning to, Arthur took a step back from him, prey's instinct, but Curt wasn't a predator then, leaning in, molasses slow, to brush his lips against Arthur's, a whisper of touch, the ghost of his tongue darting out to bridge the skin-thin distance between them.

Arthur breathed into the almost-kiss, feeling his embarrassment slide away as Curt slowly sank down before him, knowing that every soft touch of those lips, trailing down Arthur's body as if he were marking his path home, were Curt's way of saying thank you. Knowing that the way he took Arthur's cock in his mouth, warm and deep, was Curt's way of saying he understood, was Curt's translation, sloppy and smeared and hard for anyone else to read, of the emotions that Arthur had tried to sing.

He could feel his orgasm building, the desperation that had driven him home crawling under Arthur's skin again, making his hips jerk and twitch, fucking Curt's mouth hard even as he tried to hold back. He moaned when Curt pulled away, his cock wanting to follow the thin string of saliva that still attached him to Curt's mouth, and he had to fist his hands to keep from burying them in Curt's hair, from holding him still and burying himself in Curt's warmth again.

Curt took his hands, unclenched them, twining both of their fingers together as he pushed Arthur back to the bed, pushed Arthur's back to the bed, his hands stilling him there before Curt moved away, grinning at Arthur's objecting whine. He didn't move far, though, only standing to quickly slide off his own jeans, reaching down to tug Arthur's all the way off before he crawled back on the bed, moving over Arthur. Moving _over_ Arthur, and as Curt pressed his ass back onto the spit-slick cock, Arthur couldn't help but moan again, his hips driving in even as he shook his head.

His voice was shaking with need and concern, but he still managed to croak out, "Lube. There's lube, right there."

But Curt wasn't stopping his slow slide down, wasn't trying to stop the instinctual thrust up that Arthur couldn't help, and he only bit down on his lip for a moment before he said, "No, I want to feel it for days and days. I want to feel it forever."

And then he was all the way down and Arthur was all the way in, and he couldn't have stopped if he'd wanted to, which he certainly didn't, pushing into Curt as he pushed back, both of them moving in time with each other. There was the sharp slap of flesh on flesh as their tempo increased, and soft, needy sounds and soft, gentle hands gave way to grunts and friction that burned everything in its path, their voices slurring together - _right there, harder, more, now_ \- point and counterpoint, music that they made, their own performance for each other.

His hearing ebbing and flowing in the wash of arousal, Arthur felt Curt come more than heard him, felt Curt's knees tighten against his ribs, felt Curt push back hard onto Arthur's cock, spasm around it, and then Arthur couldn't hear at all, his own cry of completion lost in a burst of pleasure that whited out the world around him.

Color and sound came back in bits and pieces, the bright gold of Curt's hair pressed under his nose, the sound of his own breathing, finally slowing down. Arthur was content to let it return at its own pace, not feeling the need to do anything but lie there, Curt still on top of him, his limbs loose in sleep. There was trust and love in Curt's casual sprawl, more than he'd ever shown anyone else, more than anyone had ever shown Arthur, and, maudlin or not, Arthur couldn't help but whisper, "I'll always want you," into the ear by his lips.

Curt just twitched, one hand batting at the noise buzzing in his ear, and Arthur grabbed at it, saving himself a broken nose. He kept hold of it as he laid there, half-awake, and walked through dreams of being 87 and flirting with Curt, their knees too old to kneel in front of, or on top of, each other, but still finding ways to sing.

/pr0n  



End file.
